Insides
by neverbirds
Summary: The thing about love is, a more suitable word is obsession." Marik wants his fairytale ending, but villains - they never get the 'happily ever after'. YBxM


_N.B: For the harlequin demon, because she inspired this. We both like writing about disgusting things, she just does it a lot better._

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**Prompt #4; Insides**

Love, it's a funny sort of thing. Most people who are in love don't realise, and those who know when they are – well, they're liars.

Love, real love, it's nothing like the fairytale romance everybody has come to expect. Stories, they do that do you. Twist your perception, the way you think about that passionate emotion that consumes you; a monster with its jaws wide open, ready to swallow you whole. It's not all butterflies and roses and happily ever after. The thing about love is, a more suitable word is _obsession._

Fairytales, they've been twisted too. Disney produced happiness spoon-fed to children as if it's real life, as if Snow White defeated the witch – as if Arial, she got the guy. As if Sleeping Beauty woke up. The sad thing is, that's not how the story goes. That's not the real ending. Happiness, it's over rated. Those chunks of the Ugly Stepsisters' feet rotting on the floor, decomposing the second the blood splatters on the marble – that's real. The dripdripdrip on the floor as the glass slipper becomes Ruby, and Cinderella, she cries locked in her room.

There's no place like home, she whispers, the Glass-turned-Ruby slipper walking the Villain down the aisle.

These endings, the real endings – they're always filled with so much blood and guts and organs beatbeatbeating in fragile bodies as they collapse under torture. Happiness, that's just the start of the next story. Tape over the insects devouring rotten flesh. Just wait until the pain has ended, until you can't see the slack jawed expression and glass eyes gazing at you from beyond the grave, and rewind. Stop. Record. Pretend it never happened. That way, we can believe happiness – we can believe it lasts. The problem is, this way, nobody expects it when the villains succeed. Evil defeats good, almost every time.

This is what parents do to children. Because they care. Because they love them.

The problem is, a more suitable word is _obsession._

Marik, he never had the cotton wool pulled over his eyes. The thing about Marik is, his scars speak more about him than his mouth ever could. He doesn't wait for his happily ever after. His story doesn't start with once upon a time, because his past, it's always with him. Carried on his back and in the gaping wound in his chest where his heart should be. Oh, his blood is pumping in his body, white and red cells rushing and pushing through his bloodstream, but the sad thing about Marik is that his heart lacks passion. The heart, it means nothing anymore. Marik's story doesn't start with _once upon a time _because no matter how often he claws at his back and his eyes, no matter how much of his damn precious blood spills down his cheeks... he'll never forget. Marik doesn't tell his story because he doesn't have anybody to tell. Nobody cares about the villain. Nobody wants to know.

Because to the world, to the audience, it's all so very black and white. The good and the bad. There's no shades of grey, no in between. No story within a story within a story. The problem is, everybody's so wrapped up in their own personal dramas they forget that a fairytale, it can mean so much more than their reality - their everyday life - ever could.

Happiness is overrated. Love is overrated.

Possession, domination. Submission. The more suitable word for love is _obsession_.

To Marik, Bakura is the handsome prince. His story, Bakura's fairytale; that really does start _once upon a time._ Why Marik is so enamoured with Bakura is because he doesn't bother to wait for his happily ever after. Bakura, he offers Marik the poisoned apple, and his golden skin takes it like he's giving him the world. Maybe he is. Maybe this is all Marik needs. Maybe this – this, could be happily ever after. This could be love. More suitably, obsession.

Bakura is the silver to Marik's gold. The spider to his web. The hero to his victim. The thing about Bakura is, he smirks against Marik's scars and says he likes his story. He can't wait to find out the ending.

Love, obsession, these are just words that mean the same thing to Marik.

The thing about Bakura is, he's just a tragedy wrapped in a tragedy wrapped in a tragedy. The story in the story in the story. And he holds out his hand, flexing Ryou's slender fingers like he owns them, and Marik takes it without even thinking. It isn't until later, when their limbs are entangled in a crossroad of colour and sweat and blood, that Marik thinks about what this means. Bakura is his, but he isn't Bakura's.

I love you, Marik tells Bakura, the words not sounding quite right. The more suitable word is obsession.

Bakura replies that he knows.

The thing about Bakura is, when he's inside of him, he's not _really _inside him. Not like Ryou is. When he's engulfed in Bakura like it's his own body, it's an illusion. Bakura's body is Ryou's body and Ryou's body is Bakura's.

Marik loves Bakura. It isn't until later, much later, when he can see Ryou dancing in the dirty pools of Bakura's eyes and he nearly tears Bakura's lip clean off instead of kissing him, that Marik realises that there's a more suitable word. Obsession.

Marik's story might not start once upon a time, but he's desperate for his happy ending, just like everybody else. He's willing to suffer in order to tape over it. Wait for the pain to subside. Rewind. Stop. Record.

Bakura's growl accompanies Ryou's blood in his mouth, teeth embedded in the soft pink tissue of his lip, and Marik gets an idea. The plot twist to this tragedy. The climax to their dance.

One upon a time, Ryou was sitting in a chair, eating his breakfast and reading his book like this is just another day. Marik, our poor heartless villain, looks at him and tells him that Bakura is his.

Ryou turns, eyes half glazed over in the mid morning stupor, a small sad smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Invisible strings pull those lips Marik adores so much into a smile, and Bakura's the puppeteer. I want to be a real boy, Ryou's eyes scream.

Instead, Ryou's mouth, it says that he knows.

It's around this time that Marik's mind starts to unravel, the threads winding and unwinding and tangling, nerves and cells and impulses mixing like a bad cocktail. I love you, his mind screams, but that isn't the right word.

The thing is, Ryou sighs, is that I'm his.

Thudthudcrack.

Bakura – Ryou – doesn't scream. Marik smiles, white teeth peering out of his hot wet mouth to take a look at the mess before them.

He preheats the oven, and sets the table. As if this was another ordinary day.

I love you, Marik cries against the cold dead mess that was his prince in shining armour. The Ring glitters menacingly at him, but Marik thinks it looks more like a smile. The more suitable word, the cold dead body smirks, is obsession.

If Marik can't be inside Bakura, not really... then he'll take the next best thing.

Bakura's heart tastes like how he fucked, bitter and cold.

If Marik can't be inside Bakura, then Bakura will just have to be inside Marik. But that's ok. Marik prefers it this way. Lumps of meat choke in his throat, skin sticking to his teeth. Bakura never would go down without a fight.

Bakura sits in Marik's stomach, inside of him, and Marik wonders if this is happiness. Blood slicks the kitchen walls like paint, on the floor like varnish, on Marik like clothes. Bakura is everywhere, outside and in, and Marik loves it.

The more suitable word – it's obsession.

This is Marik's ending. Until the pain subsides, and Bakura's digested and gone, and then he can rewind.

Stop.

Record.


End file.
